Waking the next morning is a strange sensation—like the world’s exploding outside our windows. Rays of golden light pierce our quarters from skylights above, and shadows rushing over them make me wonder if we’re under attack.
I jolt upright after the third shadow.
“Did you—” I point, looking right at a groggy Jurso.
“Tell me I’m not imagining things, Hale? That shape… like it popped right out of mythos.”
“Wyverns,” I agree.
The last one flies by overhead, which confirms the truth of it.
Bat-like wings with skinny veins running down the pale connecting skin, attached to a spindly body. Its forked tongues are so long they trail behind the length of the beast. If dragons are the lions of the sky, wyverns would be the hyenas. And to see an actual one in real life…
I’m stunned.
Commotion rises from the other quarters beside ours. Students of House Sivus get ready for who knows what. I put on my pants, unlock the door, and peek out into the hallway. Layla and Jenny grunt while curiously following me and Jurso.
My presence interrupts a group of three students strapping into their armor and robes.
I point to the skylights. “Guys?”
They look at one another, then start laughing.
Boeru spurs out of my shoulders as a shadowy black silhouette, scaring the three students back. Judging by their age—a year or two over mine—and their reaction, they’ve never seen a dragonborn before.
“We’re not under attack?” I step into their quarters more confidently as Boeru folds back into his home.
The little one tightening his boot clears his throat. “Nah. It’s just funny ‘cause you’re new is all. House Kavoh likes to taunt our riders sometimes. That’s all that is.” He whirls his finger in a circle as if it’s no big deal. “Grinwol is a Kavoh rider who found a roost of wyverns and tamed them about a year ago. Became a squad leader because of it. Now he thinks he’s the shit, challenging the Sivus gryphons whenever he can.”
I’d be lying if my heart rate wasn’t going haywire. The prospect of taming and riding a beast… no. I have my beast already. I should be buried in books learning how to strengthen my bond, to maybe one day ride Boeru.
The taller one straps his sword diagonally across his chest, over his robes. “Children playing with toys. They wouldn’t last one second in the war-tier.”
My brow furrows.
The little one smiles and pats his friend on the shoulder. “Haren despises cadet arrogance, while ironically failing to realize his own.”
“How would you know about the war-tier?” I ask.
“Born there.” Haren cracks his knuckles.
“He’s of the Highstar lineage,” the third young man says. “His father literally led the charge into the south castle, Ferus of Lacor.”
My mind races to verify the information in the lineage tomes, but it’s not connecting.
“You three better get ready.” The little guy winks at us. “Ring leader will be on his way any minute.”
Haren puffs his chest and lifts his chin, reiterating his friend’s suggestion.
I pause before turning away. No warm introduction, no welcoming words. Just a little boasting before a dismissal. Are we of the sub-tier despised that much?
Or maybe he’s just looking out for the new batch in town.
Heading back to our quarters, we scour the standing dresser next to Renesta’s bed in the corner of the room. Basic robes and combat wear hangs side by side for each named candidate. Jenny takes it upon herself to start distributing. Analyzing the choices for each seem tactical, honestly, making me think back to Aster talking about intellectuals versus combatants. Our crew isn’t too lopsided. Jurso and Jenny are mostly brain, while Rogo and Lay are brawn. That leaves me, Misty, and Ren in the middle. My gut tells me to grab a leather cuirass. Even though the extra laces are annoying to tie, mobility suits me over mage-like status.
That tall guy, Haren, appeared to be honoring both sides of the coin with his robes and sword. All of the designs and stitching styles remind me of royalty in mythos. Mages. Battle mages. Warriors. Riders. This wardrobe seems like the first step in choosing one of those directions.
Hearing Jurso cough in the corner makes me immediately fling his robe right at him. The healing aura in the quarters is very faint, almost non-existent. I wouldn’t have even noticed it had I not experienced two powerful ones on the way up the spire. If we had more time, I’d nudge him to go sneak a seat in the arena aura. That one must be strong enough to subside Arkitus for a bit.
Maybe later.
Speaking of wounds… I rub my neck thinking of last night, and can imagine the bruise Renesta probably suffers under her new lavish dark robe. We share a quick glance, but she’s obviously still solemn from the night’s mishap. Guess she didn’t find who she was looking for.
“C’mon, Rogo. Get the hell up.” I kick him in his giant arm, throwing his combat wear over his face. “We don’t want to look like dicks on our first day.”
“Fuck off, runt.” He swats at the air.
“I’m almost your height now,” I protest, kicking again.
“Half the mass. Runt.” He holds the pillow over his head.
“Don’t you want to get Grondus back for trying to kill us?” I challenge. “Until we reach war-tier, House Valor is our enemy, as far as I’m concerned.”
He grunts and tosses the pillow. “Damn fucking right they are.”
Layla slaps the wood of Rogo’s bed, agreeing with the sentiment. “Almost lost our boy Jurs.”
She looks cool in her armor. Even though the leather wraps are pretty bare, the crimson scale stitched into the abdomen section looks official. We’re part of something now.
Rogo lifts up, staring me up and down. “Shouldn’t you be in a robe with the other bitches?”
“Soon I may very well be. But until I know what I’m up against, I’m staying mobile.” I tap the chained dagger strapped to my ribs. I like the way the blue steel shimmers in the sunlight.
As we finally get Rogo strapped into his combat wear, Aster returns with a cup of morning brew and a large tome under his arm. “Cadets, meet in the hallway in one minute.”
“The soft boy holds a tome of powerful magic.” Boeru extends his neck to try and peek. “I must have it.”
“Been wondering about all that. So, let’s say you grow strong enough to wield this ‘Elden’ magic you’re after. Then what? Going to get me killed so we both end up in the afterlife?”
Boeru snickers.
“I don’t see the humor, dragon. Wait, I would end up in the afterlife too, right?”
“Well, you would not stay here,” he chortles.
“You’re not providing much comfort.”
“Relax.” Boeru twists his neck so he’s in my other ear, crystal-blue eye boring into mine. “Our bond would not be so cohesive if I had ill will. Take the riderborn as a prime example.”
I lick my teeth, considering him.
“You have my word, mortal. I will not coax you to an early grave. Unless, of course, your heart is less pure than I originally estimated.”
There’s an air of humor to his voice, which makes my lip curl a bit.
“You mortals are vile creatures. I see it now that I’m stuck inside one. However, it does not all seem bad.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Uh huh.” I make way for the door, waiting for the others to scramble behind me. “So, let’s say in a hundred years, when I die of old age—”
“Hah!” Boeru sends a heap of smoke clouding my mind.
“You better believe it! Anyway, when we do finally pass to the afterlife, you said you lose something as you travel between realms.”
“The fog clouds much, yes. However, it is said that the knowledge of Elden magic supersedes the passing. Much like bonds, it stays with you.”
“We wouldn’t forget one another?”
“It goes much further than that. Friends, lineage, blood. You keep those connections until the end of time. Which is why it hurts that much more when those you once knew fall from grace.” He flaps his gigantic wing into my vision, then vanishes from my mind’s eye.
I’m left to push the door open into our new day.
“I hope you all of batch twenty-eight settled in pleasantly.” Aster takes a sip of his brew.
We nod while scanning the others of House Sivus filing out of their quarters. Some are pudgy with robes, but most are in shape in their rich leather or fine armor—Haren and the little guy among them. We of batch twenty-eight are the only ones who still look like peasants, despite our new attire. It’s only our weaponry that is on par or in some cases better than others. Is that a perk of participating in Sealed duels?
It would make sense, considering we were being lambasted yesterday just for having them.
“Excellent. Now we leave the comfort of Mother’s bosom, so to speak, and march to Elshard Sanctum. Batch twenty-eight, you will be assigned war-tutors based on House Lord Karloth’s assessment. From there I, Aster Red, assume responsibility for your progress as ring leader.”
He begins the walk through the halls. Most of the other cadets are chattering about their upcoming lessons. I overhear something about fine-ice attunement, and that one of the Sivus mages is nearing her mastery. Another speaks about heavy combat training and earning a black-steel bastard sword.
The prospects are exhilarating, but I’m flying blind everywhere I go. It’s a weird feeling to have to start over again, not knowing exactly what’s what. But gods, am I ready.
Once we make it to that large elemental-shifting scale in the main hall, my insides twist a bit from nerves. What the hell am I in for?
The sun beams through the heavy archways as we travel to the north entrance of Elshard—which was off limits yesterday. It’s a much shorter route, and on the way all of us twenty-eight newcomers duck to better see the flying beasts soaring overhead.
Jurso and I were right. Wyverns. A whole roost of eight. They screech in the sky, almost sounding like evil laughter as they pass overhead, with riders in plate armor cheering atop them. Obnoxious and cool at the same time.
I only get a glimpse of him, but the one leading the pack in his black, silver-lined armor must be Grinwol of House Kavoh.
The others in line sneer at us, cackling at our reactions.
“Riders tend to be overconfident cadets, if I’m being honest. Let’s not help their egos along.” Aster snaps his fingers over his head.
As we approach the northern entrance, a protruding statue of a rider charging out of the wall atop his dragon is awe-inspiring. His expression is as ferocious as the dragon itself, and the attention to detail—scales, anger lines in the face, muscle definition—it begs everyone to gawk.
“This fine piece was constructed a century ago, when the Great Ninth War began.” Aster points above him. “Prior to that, for a short few generations, Elshard favored the intellectual wings of each house, deepening our understanding of magi and histories, as is natural during times of peace… however few and far between they may be. Now combatants are in demand once more. Brutish, warring dark, high magic, or any combination thereof.” Aster walks backward into the first hall of the northern entrance, where on the outskirts magical orbs rotate high above pools of yellow-lit waterfalls that set the tone of an aquatic kingdom.
Other groups walk past, one with clinking armor crossing another holding scores of tomes. There’s a sense of urgency and hostility among many of the students. Not sure if that comes from the constant reminder of the war-tier above the sky, but it makes me itch to learn as fast as I can.
The only one who seems unhurried is Aster.
“The lords fear for the future,” Aster says, as if responding to the cadets’ resolve. “If Miria’s bonded and myth weaver admittances continue to dwindle, hope may one day be lost. You bring about hope for our empire, Haledyn Winbridge, as do you, Fiora Dahl. No pressure.”
The other seasoned cadets scoff at us. It’s easy to ignore. My curiosity lies in whatever the hell a “myth weaver” is. From mythos, those were just royal high-magic users. Wonder what the significance is here.
My gaze lingers on the woman, Fiora Dahl, sporting a tri-braid entwined with brass rings cascading all the way down to her backside. Amber eyes and mocha complexion tell of origins surely not from the sub-tier. Her skin glows like the sun has been kissing it for years.
Jurso bumps my shoulder to get my attention, as if his incessant coughing didn’t do the trick. “You hear that, Hale? Myth weavers? Thought those were just gilded exaggerations for royal mages.”
“Me too,” I whisper back. “Let’s not be rude in case her special power is eavesdropping on marked warriors.”
“There is no such power needed for imbeciles.” Her head turns, one amber eye our way. “Ears can identify them just fine.”
I want to laugh, but there’s no humor to her voice.
“Spicy.” Jurso grimaces.
We’re escorted past a room of bubbling, murky water beneath a marble bridge, causing our hair to frizz. Apparently, captured black sea-snakes can horde the warring dark in their bodies, and certain riders learn how to tame them. Bizarre, if you ask me. And no thank you.
The other House Sivus students branch off in the next gigantic hall—one with about thirty doorways that lead to classrooms of all sorts. We of batch twenty-eight march through the largest of the doors the farthest into the room, leading to a gallery of magical paintings showing prominent scenes of history that I recognize from mythos. Whenever I focus on one, it plays a reel, causing everyone to gravitate toward them like moths to a flame.
The Battle of Hirevale is real. I gape, squinting to see the year in which it took place. Only my timeline is all screwed up. It happened four hundred years sooner than I remember reading about.
We all continue gaping at the different magi paintings, until a door thrums in the corner of the room, revealing Head Magus Foren leisurely walking in with a group of eccentric-looking people at his back. They aren’t the house lords, and my gods, when did the room get so filled? A bunch of siblings I recognize from sub-tier were also ushered in, each with their own custom house wears. Everyone looks so different all washed and polished. It’s nice to see.
Then there are the others—Fiora among them. Snooty cadets originally from upper tiers, no doubt.
Aster snaps his fingers, sending red film crawling over his body. Then, in a flash, he vanishes and reforms at the front of the group, clapping the tome in arm shut. “House Sivus, line up.” He takes a sip of his brew.
Other ring leaders corral their groups to receive whatever the Head Magus has to say. Everyone is embarrassingly scrunched together. My guess is that it’s part of the point of this exercise—to show how far we have to go.
“Year-one cadets.” Foren paces, judging us hard as he rotates his icy orb over his palm. “Born of Miria, high and low. Some from a life of luxury and golden utensils. Others lied to and whipped to oblivion. Yet you all land here, in Elshard Sanctum, to preserve the great ways of the empire and to ensure that our cities stay out of Lacor’s chains.” He bores into our souls, evoking the warring dark just by being near. “Some of you scowl at the riches around you. Good. It’s as you were bred to be. Tempered, evoking powers that high society may never boast. And vice versa. You”—he points to a snobbish cadet—“the sub-tier is beneath you. You hate that you rub shoulders with them. Good. Molded as intended.”
Like stable beasts being herded to do the farmer’s bidding.
“He is goading you, mortal.” Boeru spreads his good wing in my mind’s eye.
“There is no time to waste. Cadets, today you have made your first choice. The attire you wear signals your intention.”
Knew it.
“Robes speak to a desire to learn. Leathers… a desire to act. Neither can exist without the other, and none will land squarely in either. This hour officially marks your conscription—a great welcoming into war.” Foren spins his orb off orbit and toward the ceiling, which flicks out a misty essence that slaps around our arms and dissolves into our skin. “Rankings begin from this instant onward. You are now part of a system created by the most legendary magi wielders who came before us. Prepare to be measured in terms set forth by Miria, in terms matched by our Lacor enemies, for these old hierarchies predate our wars. Welcome to the bottom… welcome to glass rank… where you will rise solely based on thresholds set by Elshard. Wit and skill will both be tested. Fight as if your life depends on it. Because it does.”
The cryptic words linger in the air as Head Magus exits the room, leaving one of his scribes to begin announcements. Once we’re assigned to our Prominent war-tutors, classes will begin shortly after our first prominence sessions.
As the scribe calls our names, my marked group becomes separated. Jurso is wrangled with fifteen or so others by a woman with a crooked wooden staff, long white-yellow robes, and blindingly gold eyes. Everyone in her presence seem to have afflictions of their own. Renesta is gathered with other sub-tier types budding with warring dark. I should be with her.
Not to my surprise, Layla and Rogo are paired on the other side of the room with a freakishly tall warrior holding a winged helmet under his arm and a claymore that could remove five heads with one swing. He takes one look at Layla and shoves her to another group. I’m too lost in the crowd to glimpse anything else, and hope Misty is okay, wherever she landed.
Amongst all the groups, one stands out as scarce. Fiora lines up with only one other man—Jayden Cru-Sieus. Makes me wonder if they’re both myth weavers.
Then I’m called. Hearing my name ignites something within me. No more climbing blind or killing for no reason. This is war school, and the only way to grow strong enough to find Kane. Before I can step to my place, Broggen is called alongside me, activating my warring dark to dangerous levels. He doesn’t offer so much as a glance, whereas I can do nothing but picture snapping his neck for what he did to our group. And before this is over, I just might.
Even with all the budding tension between us, the hunched man we’re called to is somehow more jarring.
Golden eyes, thick brown eyebrows, sharp jaw, he balances over a cane wearing a dark cloak like a perched hawk in human form. His ribs show under his tattered robes, and the scowl on his face makes me think he wants to take a bite out of us.
“Scorius Draken’foe. You may exit,” the scribe dismisses my small group of two.
“With me, invalids.” He taps his cane twice and makes for the main hall, leaving enough space for Gen and I to share words.
I look to the man beside me. He’s as unstable as ever with Noctus’ spirit thrashing to get out. His tattered half-cloak constantly flaps like he has his own personal windstorm circling him, and he hides his face under his cowl. The cuirass embroidered with Valor’s golden crown under his sub-tier cloak makes him look like a king in hiding.
“Gen, how could you try killing one of your brothers?” I dip my head to find his eyes.
It’s not lost on me that life means less to him, considering he has seven bodies under his sword already.
He only turns away with a growl. “Liar. You send your shade to sabotage my marked. Noctus sees all, brother.”
“We were only scouting to understand what was ahead of us.”
“That is not how it went, Dragonborn.”
“Silence, you fools.” Our Prominent war-tutor scowls as we reach the hall of many doors, then lifts his cane to direct us toward his room.
What does he mean that’s not how it went?
Renesta… does she lie again?
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